Music always has been and always will be many things to me. Sometimes music is necessary to heal the soul, other times it boosts the mood of an already upbeat night and gets everybody on their feet. Sometimes the entire world is you and a dark car and a sad song, other times just one happy song connects you to a thousand other people and their pounding hearts. Some of the gems in my archive of travel memories include a single moment with a well-placed, unexpected song, which transforms both the memory and the meaning of the song. Some trips even become defined by a song; like summarizing a novel, you’re able to convey everything you need by simply playing it.
I mentioned in previous blogs the role played by one song or a group of songs in making a trip memorable, like when I had to replay Rihanna’s “Disturbia” to get myself through the night, or when Hanna and I simultaneously decided that we needed to scream to some throwbacks at full volume for a little bit, but I’ve realized that so many moments like these are pieces of one great picture of the role that music plays in setting the tone for an experience.
Last January, when two car’s worth of us took off for Nashville I remember a particular sense of frustration creeping in at the tail end of our drive. We had arrived, technically, but everyone else had jumped ship to take their bags inside, leaving Andi and I alone trying to find parking for a full hour. We had just circled the same block for probably a fifth time, and I had already tried and failed to hold back tears, leaving me with nothing but exhaustion. We were sitting at a stop sign when Elvis Presley’s “Burnin’ Love” started playing and I became overwhelmed by the realization that I needed to blast the volume, or I was going to fall apart right there on the spot. So, without a warning, I cranked it, startling Andi in the process, but restoring some semblance of excitement to the mood in the car. I remember it being a bright spot in a bad memory, and that is enough to make me look back on the whole thing fondly, almost ready to laugh about it.
There was another moment like that, one in which almost everyone involved was miserable in some way or another. It was late on a Saturday night last Spring, and someone suggested breakfast food. Everybody was clearly itching for a change of pace, suffocating in the dorms by the end of a long semester, and only I could deliver us to the promised land of greasy bacon and overcooked eggs. Two of our friends were beyond intoxicated, one was heartbroken over a very fresh breakup, and one just didn’t have a car at the time. I was fighting a never-ending sinus infection myself, but it just seemed like breakfast was the cure we all needed. It was about a 40-minute drive to get somewhere both decent and open, but again, we had no other options. The food itself was unmemorable, and I have a vague memory of one of my drunk friends almost running into a waitress at one point, but the thing that pulls this memory out of obscurity and into the ranks of dazzling good times was the drive home. “Sweet Caroline” was requested, which, of course, nobody could resist screaming along with. I-75 was empty all around us. Those three minutes in the dead of the night were filled with such enthusiasm and comradery that I can’t fight the smile tugging at the corners of my mouth even now. I had one hand on the wheel, the other on a box of tissues, singing my heart out but unable to pick my own voice out of the swell of noise produced from us as one.
More recently, a big group of friends took a weekend trip up to Andi’s house in Northeast Ohio. We were all scattered for the summer, busy and worn down from work. We needed something to look forward to, and with a new Spider-Man movie coming out, we figured it would be a great excuse to get together. The moment I was clocked out and done getting yelled at by middle-schoolers for the day I hopped in a car with one other friend and we were on our way. A short three hours later we had arrived and were ready to load the Vale’s pickup-truck with pillows and blankets for the drive-in. We were just a couple days out from the summer solstice, so sun was taking its sweet time slipping down low in the sky. Six of us packed into the truck and I took the opportunity to play a song that had been stuck in my head for an indeterminate amount of time. With windows down, cruising down narrow country roads, I played “Over My Head (Cable Car)” by The Fray, and I think something about the nostalgia of the song and the giddiness of seeing all of my favorite people for the first time in two months and the golden light of the setting sun made this moment one of pure happiness. Screaming over the whoosh of the wind and the volume of the stereo with best friends made my heart feel like it was going to burst. It was unbridled joy, and I believe that if our lives had highlight reels then it would be near the top of mine.
One song, though, rises above all the others. A love affair with “Wagon Wheel” has been sparked by Darius Rucker’s sweet, soulful cover. It has featured in some of the best moments of my life, and that is absolutely not an exaggeration. This, too, occurred in Nashville, at first. We were wandering around one night, musing about which songs would be funniest to hear playing from one of those pedal beer carts. When Wagon Wheel was thrown out there, we began singing it, quietly at first, mumbling our way through the parts no one really knew, but loud, comfortable, and confident through the chorus. Laughing over the concept of a song about wagon wheels and our horrible singing on an empty street is where it all started. For the next couple of months Wagon Wheel took up residence in our heads. We spent many nights singing it in cars, learning all the words, enjoying it. And then, miraculously, we had to go to Raleigh for a concert—the very city mentioned twice in the song. We set out on a Wednesday evening in October, prepared for the drive to take us well into the night. It was just past 1am when we drove through Raleigh, Wagon Wheel on full blast in the minivan. It was a quieter kind of excitement that time, but it reached each of us through our exhaustion and renewed our excitement about traveling and being so close to our destination. Just a few short months later, Hank and I were discussing Wagon Wheel on a Thursday afternoon in Iceland. We were standing outside the used book store waiting to regroup with the others who were still inside. Erik and Andrew chimed in with their appreciation for this masterpiece of a song and we began scouring YouTube in the hopes of finding a cover of it in Icelandic. Our search was unsuccessful, but it left the song in the front of our minds for later. That night a group of us ended up at a pub where two Icelandic musicians were playing an odd collection of songs. After maybe a few too many drinks we were all on our feet, dancing and eagerly anticipating the next song that would throw us for a loop. At one point, Andrew made a joke about requesting Wagon Wheel, but of course we latched onto that idea, urging him intensely to go request it. And eventually, he did. The familiar melody came to life right there in what felt like the heart of Iceland. The warmth buzzing in my chest intensified and I could not hold back the words that begged to leave my mouth. We sang together and swayed together, enjoying such a precious and oddly specific moment in the core of a place so foreign, full of cheer and triumph. And in the end, that is one of the purest intentions of music—to unite people, and to give them the ability to both share an experience and make it so uniquely individual. I cannot wait for the next wonderful memory to be made complete by a song—or to see where Wagon Wheel will make its next appearance.
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